


in the end of the night, you're in my arms

by witchofthewild



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22003819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchofthewild/pseuds/witchofthewild
Summary: A lifetime of death, never once looking back. To dwell was to suffer, and she had suffered enough. Onwards, onwards, onwards, never backwards. The horror was for survival; the blood on her hands a necessity; the power coursing through her veins a blessing… so why did it suddenly feel so wrong? What had changed?
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Serana
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	in the end of the night, you're in my arms

**Author's Note:**

> hello, this is quite nerve-wracking because i'm introducing my own character and HOPING you find her interesting enough to read about! meet vanadís, my dragonborn, and hopefully this fic will tell you all you need to know about her.

If there's one thing to be learned from Lord Harkon, it's that power corrupts those who lack the strength to look into the eyes of temptation and say _ no.  _ Vanadís had always tiptoed at the brink of morality, committing acts of grand heroism and heralding the coming of a glorious prophetic saviour, all whilst making unspeakable deals with daedric princes and dabbling in the font of evil for the sake of —  _ you guessed it  _ — power. Where Harkon had been weak, his daughter stood tall, resilient and fierce. Serana didn't know how to give in. Vanadís envied her that.

  
  


They were both survivors, no doubt about it, for Vanadís had endured atrocities Molag Bal himself would shudder to dream of, but she lacked the fortitude her dear friend possessed. In exchange for the ebony mail she adorned, Vanadís had not hesitated to thrust her blade through Marcurio's beating heart, his blood warm and thick as it slithered down her arm, ghostly pale skin forever stained crimson.  _ He trusted me, and I repaid that trust in blood.  _ Was she truly so different to Harkon, who would choke the life from his only daughter in exchange for supremacy? His blood — his  _ power _ — flowed through her veins, after all. All that remained of Lord Harkon; the tiniest fragment of his life, rested within  _ her. _

  
  


"Something is troubling you, child," a voice cut through her thoughts as deftly as her dagger has cut through Harkon's throat, and vibrant yellow eyes met her own. Vanadís cursed herself for her carelessness; for allowing her incessant melancholy to thwart her senses, for there was nothing Valerica of the Volkihar Clan could not see.

  
  


_ I am the leader of the Volkihar vampires, Harbinger of the famed Companions, Guild Master of a guild of thieves I myself revived, revered Listener to the Night Mother herself, head of the Dark Brotherhood of Skyrim… I cannot afford to show fear. _

  
  


"Your eyes speak a thousand words, no matter how deftly you guard your thoughts," Valerica continued, her voice rough in a way her daughter's was not. It was strange, how utterly unlike her parents Serana was, as if she deliberately steered clear of any traits they may possess, but given the nature of her upbringing, Vanadís could hardly blame her.

  
  


"I'm… distracted," Vanadís muttered, avoiding that stern gaze at all costs, trying to remember why she entered the vampire's study.  _ Daedra hearts!  _ "You don't happen to have any daedra hearts lying around, do you? I've been meaning to craft a new sword, you see, and they're a nightmare to find."

  
  


She made a point of searching every shelf, eyeing glow dust, canis root and spriggan sap… anything to direct Valerica's attention elsewhere. The weight of that golden gaze hit the back of her head harder than any giant's club could — and she had  _ far  _ too many experiences with that, thank you very much.

  
  


"Serana has been looking for you," Vanadís was sure her heart would have stopped in that moment, if it hadn't ceased to beat already. "But I suppose that's why you're here, rummaging through my shelves for an ingredient you  _ know  _ I do not possess."

  
  


What she had expected when she sought the safety of Valerica's study, Vanadís could not say, but to be cut to the core with a truth she had desired only to run from was certainly the last thing she needed. In truth, the older woman was right, as in most things. The death of Harkon was a blessing; an act she was glad to perform, but it also opened a gate somewhere in the depths of her mind, a gate she was certain she had locked forever.

  
  


Fear.

  
  


Vanadís felt her fists clench, slick with blood invisible to the eye, but ever present. Of all the unspeakable acts; all the pain and suffering the Dragonborn had left in her wake - even her most honourable deeds haunted by a symphony of agonising screams and the sickening crack of bone - why was it the sight of the light leaving Harkon's deranged and desperate eyes that affected her so?

  
  


_ Why now?  _ A lifetime of death, never once looking back. To dwell was to suffer, and she had suffered enough. Onwards, onwards, onwards, never backwards. The horror was for survival; the blood on her hands a necessity; the power coursing through her veins a blessing… so why did it suddenly feel so wrong? What had changed?

  
  


_ Serana… _ Vanadís felt the slick slide of red in her palms, the gentle touch of another's hand upon her own. Blood poured like a faucet, and Valerica's hands were surprisingly soft as they plucked violet shards from tender flesh. In her melancholy, she hadn't even felt the soul gem smash within her grip.

  
  


_ Weak girl, that's what you are,  _ a voice taunted her, his tone as mocking as it had been all those years ago.  _ Are you going to cry, little girl? _

  
  


Vanadís would fall upon her blade before she cried.

  
  


"You need not speak to me, child, but speak you must," Valerica soothed, and Vanadís hated her in that moment; hated how  _ motherly  _ the vampire sounded, as if she hadn't robbed her only daughter of a childhood… of love. "Few are strong enough to bear a crown, and none can do so alone. My husband is proof of that."

  
  


If the sight of her own blood before her wasn't enough to turn her stomach, the sound of Marcurio's desperate pleas ringing in her ears certainly did the trick. She felt the weight of her mail upon her body, threatening to drag her down; to send her crashing through the ground into a dark, everlasting abyss.  _ Trust, repaid in blood. Sacrifice, in the name of power.  _ She recalled the sight of her own image in Harkon's frenzied glare.

  
  


"Do you resent her, I wonder?" Valerica prompted, her voice laced with curiosity and a sense of knowing that stripped Vanadís of all her armour. She tended to the wound carefully, though it seemed little more than an afterthought, as the vampire prodded at a different, bloodier wound with fine precision. "It was Serana who placed the crown upon your head, after all. Her birthright, entrusted to you…"

  
  


Snow white skin knitting together at unnatural speed, Valerica only hummed when the younger woman snatched her hand away, again, as if she had anticipated such a reaction.

  
  


" _ Never, _ " Vanadís hissed, felt her fangs rest heavy in her mouth, ready and raring to tear out her throat. The scent of her own blood hung heavy in the air.

  
  


Valerica only watched her, that knowing gaze seeping through her pale skin, penetrating muscle and weaving beneath bone, like the tendrils of Hermaeus Mora himself, filled with a terrifying knowledge that left Vanadís exposed in a way she had never been before. She had perfected the art of deception, of hiding truths in the deepest caverns of her mind, and yet Valerica dug deeper.

  
  


It was easier to hide in the shadows than step into the light, and Vanadís could feel the threat of daybreak drawing ever closer.

  
  


"Serana is my daughter, though I have done little for her as a mother. Allow me this, Vanadís."

  
  


Gold met gold, as Valerica fixed her gaze upon her.

  
  


"You can build your walls as high as you like, forge them from the bones of dragons themselves, but you cannot hide from her," she cocked her head in curiosity, like a cat, and for a moment Vanadís felt at ease.

  
  


"I will not claim to understand what is in your heart, but what I do know is that heart has earned the trust of my daughter, and that alone speaks volumes about what lies within it. For good or ill, she has placed her faith in you. Whether it be resentment or… something else, you owe it to Serana to  _ discuss  _ such feelings."

  
  


Speech was lost to her in the wake of such revelation. Never in her life had somebody read her so simply, as if she were an open book, her secrets freely given. After all, how could she resent Serana? She could  _ never,  _ not truly. But there was  _ something  _ she resented; something she despised so deeply she could not face the woman who had given her so much. 

  
  


_ You don't deserve it,  _ her brother spoke once again, his scratchy voice filling the heavy air around her.  _ You know you don't deserve it. Her. Any of this. _

  
  


_ You killed me where I stood,  _ Marcurio whispered sadly, and for the first time in all her life, she wished it was her brother's mocking.  _ We laughed together. We fought together. And you murdered me.  _

  
  


_ Look at you,  _ Harkon's voice boomed louder than those before him, drowning out her brother's scolding and her friend's pleading. Her blood seemed to sing within her veins, power answering to he who granted it.  _ Murderer. Devourer. Betrayer. Oh, we are not so different, you and I.  _

  
  


Vanadís could feel Valerica's eyes upon her, but all she could focus on was the weight in her chest, like lead in her lungs. Each breath burned hotter than the last, dark walls drawing closer and closer, threatening to squeeze the life - such as it was - from her. She felt weak, vulnerable, exposed, and gods she wished Alduin had devoured her when he had the chance. Anything was better than this constant  _ niggling  _ at the back of her head; the voices screaming at her from within, ghosts from a past she would sooner forget. And she had. She had forgotten. She had moved on, moved forward, as always, and yet… there she stood, mouth agape, eyes frantically searching for a tether to keep her there, keep her grounded.

  
  


_ Wow, this is gorgeous,  _ sang a voice smoother than the finest silks, filling Vanadís with a warmth she hadn't even known she'd missed, like the first kiss of sunlight on a summer's day — back when she could tolerate the sun, that is.  _ I'm glad you're here with me. _

  
  


Days became weeks, and weeks became a month, all without the gentle caress of that sweet voice; the voice that assured Vanadís each day that she was  _ someone _ , someone worth fighting for; the voice that would lull the girl to sleep on restless nights, as Serana recalled tales from ages long past; the voice that anchors her to this world and reminds  _ her  _ that there are things — people — in this world worth saving, worth protecting… worth loving.

  
  


She was only a whisper on the wind, yet that whisper filled her with a power no thu'um could match.

  
  


Alduin himself could have risen from the ashes of her triumph, and still Vanadís would not halt, as she practically bolted out of the nearest door. She swore she heard Valerica's knowing chuckle, but she left that behind. For a blissful moment, her mind was free of troubles; free of the doubts that plagued her in the dead of night, the very same doubts that seeped through the foundations of her mind, corrupting the light of day with that same endless dark. Yes, for a moment, Vanadís felt awake… wide awake, with a sense of clarity she had never known before.

  
  


Where her legs were taking her, she could not say, but something called out to her, drawing her ever closer. She descended crumbling staircases, dashed through the moonlit courtyard, darted past yet another tiring squabble between Orthjolf and Vingalmo, but it wasn't until she was face to face with the jet black door to Serana's chambers that Vanadís began to understand.

  
  


The first thing Vanadís had commissioned was the restoration of the eastern wing of the castle, ensuring that Serana would always have a safe harbour; a place to call her own. Larger and more spacious than Harkon's, Vanadís made it abundantly clear that such a haven should be open, roomy and full of life, with nightshade, lavender and deathbells growing in abundance. Serana had spent much of her life imprisoned in darkness, whether it be dank crypts or the confines of her endless solitude.  _ Never again,  _ Vanadís had promised.

  
  


The voices mingled in the depths of her waking mind, growing ever louder, threatening to rob her of this moment, but she would not give them the pleasure. Vanadís steeled herself, allowing herself only a brief moment to gather her strength, before she brought her hand to the ebony doorknob… and pushed.


End file.
